by Peter Beck
‘But who put the bomb in Anne’s hands?’ After decades as a lawyer, Hodel was committed to logic and he couldn’t bear any loose ends.
‘Farmer and Al-Bader were in regular contact. Al-Bader was in charge of the project in Cairo. So it’s safe to assume that Farmer knew about the meeting between his chairman and Orafin. Farmer must have sent Anne the bomb by courier. Or had an accomplice send it. Simple, but effective.’
‘But how could Farmer or his accomplice know that the bomb had to go to her?’
‘That I don’t know for sure. But I can speculate. Al-Bader knew that Anne was going to escort him. As always I emailed him the logistical details of the transfer and locality. It’s conceivable that Farmer saw this email. Al-Bader may have even forwarded the message to Farmer to let him know how the project was progressing. Maybe Al-Bader forwarded it unwittingly as part of a long, email thread. Maybe Farmer had someone close to Al-Bader. After all, they do business together.’
‘Do you have any evidence to prove this? A digital footprint or paper trail? A witness?’
Winter shook his head. Hodel drank his coffee pensively, holding the saucer directly below the cup to prevent any stray drops from falling onto his conservatively cut suit. ‘We live in a crazy world,’ he said with a gentle shake of his head. ‘But given what’s happened, do you think that we’re going to be able to keep the Al-Bader family as clients?’
‘I think so. Al-Bader’s brother is getting to the bottom of things in America with a special audit. The pendulum is swinging back in our favour.’
‘Good. Stay on it. We can’t afford to lose any more money. The financial group is just waiting for a sign of weakness to take us to task again.’
‘Is it that bad?’
‘Yes.’ He carefully placed the cup and saucer back down on the table and got up. No more discussion. Were the negotiations already at a critical stage?
Winter returned to his room. Fatima had gone. The meeting had been shorter than expected and now he had a little free time. The bus to the bunker with the server farm wasn’t leaving till nine o’clock.
He lay on the bed, stretched, crossed his arms behind his head and relaxed. At this very moment there was nothing to do. Tiredness was creeping up again. Maybe Känzig was right. The best thing would be to file the case away and focus again on day-to-day operations. Al-Bader was warned and had his bodyguards. Sooner or later the Swiss police and American authorities would do their work.
Anne.
Her murderer had probably been a professional and Winter was under no illusions about the evidence. And who was Max? A friend of the dead men from the golf course? Was he after revenge? An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. How was he going to rid himself of these ghosts? Winter had no desire to be continually looking over his shoulder.
After all that coffee he now felt restless. He leaped up, prowled around the room, put on his two holsters again and checked his weapons. What else had to be done? He still hadn’t identified who had hired the detective agency. A few more calls couldn’t hurt. He dug out the list with Schmitt’s telephone numbers, connected his laptop to the hotel’s network, started Skype and called the next anonymous number on his list.
As the computer dialled Winter got his story straight. At this time of day, inventing competitions with iPad prizes wasn’t the best way to engage someone in conversation. Should he pretend to have rung the wrong number?
The first person answered with their name. Winter couldn’t believe his ears. After a brief pause he heard a ‘Hello?’ in his headphones. Winter held his breath. The caller asked, ‘Hello? Who is that?’
Then the line went dead.
Winter recognized the voice.
And the name that went with it.
AUGUST 7 – 09:07
The coach, packed with a mix of guests and managers, left the hotel a few minutes late. Dirk sat in the front row, playing tour guide. He’d forgotten to specify a dress code. Some had opted for suits, others sporty jackets and another lot jeans.
The passengers beside Fatima and Winter were discussing the great evening they’d had high up the mountain and speculating about their visit to the military bunker.
The coach left Interlaken and turned off the main road a short while afterwards. It swayed as it wound its way along a stony, dried-out stream bed, the water dammed far back in the valley. After a tank trap, whose concrete prongs looked like a stone Toblerone, the road narrowed even further. The driver had to work hard to navigate the tight bends.
Some of the guests fell silent when they realized how close the coach was driving to the edge. Others, following the fondue and breakfast buffet, were struggling with the contrary movements in their stomachs and kept quiet too. On its pneumatic suspension the heavy coach slowly lurched this way and that, up and down.
Fir branches grazed the windows. Dirk explained to the two Japanese men in the second row that everything was fine. The bunker, he said, was sited to defend the entrance to the valley, which was why it had been built at the narrowest point.
They turned off and parked on a shadowy patch of gravel. The doors hissed open. The passengers streamed out of the coach in relief and stood beside a wet rock face with a rusty iron door. Decades ago the loose rocks had been secured with sprayed concrete. The cliff, overgrown with lichen and small shrubs, towered upwards. Everything was dripping.
Winter and Fatima stood at the edge of the crowd, examining the guests and the rock face. The entrance to the bunker looked decayed, frail and unused. The shabby appearance is good camouflage, Winter thought.
A helicopter flew low over the trees; they could hear the rotary blades come to a halt after the landing in a nearby clearing. The visitors were shivering. Some were on their phones, others chatting. The desolate bunker had steered the men’s conversation to war stories. Many of the managers were officers in the Swiss militia army.
Around thirty metres above him, Winter could make out two recesses reinforced with sandy concrete for artillery guns protecting the entrance to the valley during the Second World War and the Cold War.
Winter saw von Tobler, Hodel and four Arabs coming through the forest. The four Arabs had rolled up their white robes to protect them from the forest floor, which was marshy in places. The expressions on their faces suggested that they hadn’t particularly enjoyed themselves so far this morning. They were used to different routines. But the motto of the annual conference was: ‘Unforgettable days in the Bernese Oberland’.
For today’s outfit, von Tobler had gone for English gentleman out grouse shooting. He strode towards them.
Winter took out his phone, activated the ‘number withheld’ option and dialled a number with his thumb. The small screen showed that the call was going through. Ten metres to the side of him, somebody put their hand in their pocket and pulled out a vibrating mobile. Winter hung up.
The entrance to the bunker creaked open and the crowd of guests turned their heads.
A man of around forty, in a swanky pinstripe suit and gleaming shoes, had stepped out of the bunker. He shook hands with Dirk, who requested the group’s attention to introduce the man as Herr Torhorst, managing director of Europe’s largest server farm for the secure preservation of bank data.
Torhorst greeted his highly esteemed guests with a deep voice that echoed off the cliff behind him and said smarmily, ‘Please enter the realm of secure data preservation.’
The crowd thronged through the rusty entrance, behind which an astonishingly roomy cavern opened up. It was sparsely lit with lamps behind grills.
It was dripping.
Winter saw three corridors.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great pleasure to be able to welcome you to our sacred halls.’ In priest-like fashion Torhorst raised his hands to the cavern’s vaulted ceiling. ‘All of us value discretion and security. With the help of the Swiss mountains our firm offers you both of these. In this bunker your data is more secure than in Scrooge McDuck’s Money Bin.’
&n
bsp; Muted laughter.
The managing director gave them an overview of the firm and how volumes of data were rapidly growing. Mega. Giga. Tera. He motioned to his guests to enter one of the tunnels carved straight from the rugged rock. The temperature rose, the dripping stopped and after five minutes they reached another cavern with a cloakroom.
Two armed men in combat boots were guarding a bolted steel door. Video cameras hung from the ceiling.
Torhorst stopped and said, ‘For understandable reasons we set great store by security. So we will have to pass a number of security doors. If I may ask you to come this way?’
Two unarmed pensioners manned the cloakroom. They gave each guest a grey cloth bag with a number. The mood soured slightly. ‘Worse than the airport,’ someone grumbled. Politely, but firmly the elderly cloakroom attendants asked them to hand in all electronic and metal items, cameras and mobiles. The filled bags were exchanged for a plastic numbered token and hung on a rack behind the counter. Then the visitors had to pass through the latest thing in metal detectors.
The guards opened the fireproof steel door and stepped aside. Behind it ran a sterile, harshly lit corridor. The contrast was baffling. The mood and sense of expectation rose. ‘Almost like in hospital,’ Winter said to Fatima.
‘The idea that there are millions of tons of rock above my head makes me feel queasy.’
After fifty metres they came to a multifunctional space that served as canteen, staff room and classroom. Simple wooden tables and benches, a whiteboard, a coffee machine and a vending machine with chocolate bars and fizzy drinks. Two employees in white overalls fled from the invasion of visitors. On the tables were baskets with fresh croissants and the two pensioners from the cloakroom started handing round cups of coffee.
‘This is the communal area,’ the managing director said. ‘Our maintenance and security staff work around the clock for you. We have a kitchen and bedrooms. No luxuries, but more comfortable than in the army.’ More restrained laughter. Torhorst always had the right words at his lips. ‘We’re a welcome employer in the valley.’
‘Are there still cannons here?’ an American asked.
‘Most of the heavy artillery was scrapped but we have the two largest in our mini museum.’
A question-and-answer discussion ensued about the change from military bunker to data centre. ‘The world has changed,’ the managing director said, ‘but the threats are still there. In the past we were afraid of the Russians.’ The Russian plumber made a voluble protest, and the managing director corrected himself: ‘Excuse me. In the past we were afraid of the communists. Today people are afraid of losing their data. And I’m not talking about a few digital holiday snaps, but data absolutely vital for business. In our knowledge-based society, data is the capital of many firms.’
Torhorst was in full flow. ‘Seventy-two per cent of all Swiss bank transactions and over forty per cent of European bank transactions are stored here in absolute security. And although this bunker once belonged to the Swiss army, the tax authorities have no access here. That’s why we’ve got the spring-guns.’ Now he had the bankers and their clients in his pocket. Looking at the visitors with a winning smile that had probably been practised in the mirror, he said, ‘And we still have spare capacity.’
Then came more advertising. ‘We are totally self-sufficient.’ The managing director pointed at a poster showing a cross section of the bunker. ‘We have our own supply of drinking water, emergency power generators, a pressurized system to prevent gases from entering, sensor and filters against nuclear, biological and chemical attacks, air purification and screening from electromagnetic waves. All these things mean we’re secure against earthquakes, terrorists and atomic bombs. We’re equipped to deal with the absolute worst-case scenario and can keep functioning for months without contact with the outside world.’
Winter wondered who would still be worried about data in the case of a nuclear war.
Schütz raised his hand. ‘And what do you do to combat hackers?’
‘Aha, that’s a very good question. The data only comes to us encrypted. And we use the very newest security methods. Each client has their own server here to which they have exclusive access. As a banker you could liken it to a safety deposit box. Depending on the volume of data you need to store, you can hire a small or large data deposit box. We give you a totally unique keycode that runs to more than a thousand characters, which allows access to nobody but you. It’s our job to maintain your deposit box, that’s to say your server.’
The visitors were divided up into four groups and taken by staff in white overalls through the bunker’s tunnels. The employee leading Winter’s group was called Martin and was responsible for marketing.
The deeper they went into the mountain the more impressed the visitors became. Generators, thick, cable harnesses, flat screens, closed steel doors.
After several more security doors, which their guides could open only with retina and hand scanners, they were allowed a brief glance at the actual data storage centre, through a thick pane of glass. This was less spectacular, consisting of racks with servers and cables. No entry. ‘Sterile,’ Martin said apologetically.
Soon afterwards they all met up again in the canteen.
A snack with speciality cheeses, cured meats and the obligatory white wine was waiting for them. Torholst gave a short speech and recommended that by way of a contrast they take the detour to the small military museum, where the old life of the bunker had been reconstructed and where you could admire the two remaining cannons.
Dirk sat beside Winter, who said, ‘Good idea, this tour, Dirk. Really interesting. The security measures are impressive. It’s an excellent calling card for the bank.’
Dirk poured Winter and himself a glass of white wine.
‘Thanks.’ They toasted and Winter said, ‘I envy that guy who had the business idea. Right on trend.’
‘I don’t know. He’s suffered too. We first assessed him as a provider eight years ago. At the time,’ Dirk said, pointing with a little roll of Tête de Moine at Torhorst, doing the rounds, ‘he was on the verge of bankruptcy. He started during the dot-com boom, and when the bubble burst he only survived because Secer came up with an injection of fresh capital.’
‘Secer?’ That couldn’t be a coincidence.
‘Yes, they’re a leading provider of security technology in IT. Their HQ is in Zug. Have you never heard of them?’
‘Yes, I have.’ This morning.
‘Secer kept Torhorst going in return for shares.’
‘What about us?’
‘We – and the financial group too, by the way – only got involved later when the long-term viability of the company was secured. We’re already completely integrated here.’ Dirk laughed. Winter took a piece of Emmenthal from the mixed platter and put it thoughtfully in his mouth. Behind Dirk, Winter saw Torhorst and Baumgartner enter a neighbouring conference room. ‘And are you absolutely sure that nothing can happen to our data here in the mountain?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
‘You fantasist. There’s always a residual risk.’
‘Agreed. Let’s call it ninety-nine point nine per cent.’
Dirk and Winter clinked glasses again. ‘Cheers!’ The noise level rose and as the wine flowed, the quality of jokes deteriorated.
After a while the retinue made its way back through the corridors and the security gates, where they reclaimed their valuables. Winter discreetly put his guns away. One of the pensioners turned out to be a veteran; he took the visitors along another corridor to the bunker museum.
Fatima was talking to a Chinese businesswoman. Winter had no desire to see dusty wax soldiers and yellowed photographs of stony faces. It was dripping from the ceiling again and he allowed himself to fall to the back of the group.
They turned into a narrower tunnel, and went through a number of heavy, concrete doors with ankle-high thresholds. Five minutes earlier they’d still been in the air-conditioned light
and dry server factory. Now they were climbing up poorly lit, slippery steps inside a narrow tunnel.
The group passed an embrasure. Through its narrow slit you would have a view of the valley, but this one was overgrown with foliage. All that remained of the cannon here was a completely rusted turntable, set in concrete. The veteran explained how they’d organized the supply of munitions. It was crucial that each cannon had enough, but not too much, to avoid the risk of explosion following a direct hit. This is why each battle station had a small, separate entrepôt. A few visitors quickly stuck their heads into the musty, adjoining room before moving on to the next battle station.
Winter stood beside the rusty door and said to the man in the smart suit next to him, ‘The procedures in the bunker are interesting, aren’t they? Shall we have a closer look at the munitions room?’
The man gave Winter a bored look and said, ‘Why would I want to do that?’ Winter smiled back.
They were alone.
Winter effortlessly grabbed the man’s neck, clamped his other hand over the mouth and shoved him into the small room, slamming the door shut with his foot. Without freeing the man’s mouth, he rapidly turned him around. The man’s head cracked against the rock face. With his right hand, Winter seized the collar and jammed his voice box with his forearm. The fingers on his other hand dug through the man’s cheek in to his jaw. Taken completely by surprise, the man had offered no resistance.
Winter listened.
The footsteps were getting further away and growing quieter.
AUGUST 7 – 11:21
A dirty, caged bulb dimly lit the decayed munitions store. In the wet, hung the pungent smell of munitions sulphur, urine, putrefaction and mould. The visitors’ footsteps faded away and it fell silent. The ideal interrogation room, Winter thought. When he took his hand away from the man’s mouth, Känzig started protesting immediately. ‘Winter! What the hell has got into you? Have you gone mad?’